[SE] its denser now than ever

// don't you fight my hold on you //

The butcher goes through the motions of his reverence when the high of the devouring starts to overcome him; quiet as he catches his breath and sinks back on his heels. Blood drips both into and down from the stubble on his face, but it’s a fruitless adventure to try and swipe it away now. Instead, he lets it coat his face and throat, the front of his clothes, offering his quiet prayers to Dygra before he’s snapping off a pale white exposed rib.

It goes into the bag alongside the butcher’s roll, each blade swiped against a forearm sleeve to get the majority of the blood off of it before it’s neatly tucked away, allowing him the moment to zero in on his lover when he speaks, the motes of light drawing him to him as though he were a moth.

“He had been cooped up for some time. I had intended to do it before the mud ordeal.” He offers with a touch of apology, having not exactly been able to plan this at the prisoner’s “prime” so they might have more of a game.

But he steps over to where Danta’s settled down, invading his space to kneel before him, leaning over him until his forehead can press against Danta’s own in a gentle and grounding touch. “We should. Luckily for you, your soldiers appear to be getting more attentive to those that delve into crime.” Which means it might get even more fun when they get wise to it and stop letting the soldiers capture them.

Then the true hunt could really begin. “For now, though, happy birthday my love.” He punctuates it with a gentle, copper kiss.

Astaroth

// pour the gasoline, strike your match on me //

you're livin' for the rush, for that royal flush, but you take what you can get

Danta watches Asta with the same reverence as the butcher's prayers to their dark lady, quietly fascinated with the play of light across the blood on his face, the way he harvests and bundles away his keepsakes, the meticulous cleaning of his knives from the pack he's brought. "Ah, I see. Well, there's always next time," Danta murmurs; and for right now, he's clearly very satisfied with the hunt, however brief the chase had been.

"They are getting quite good at it, aren't they?" he touts, sounding proud of the Grounds and the little force of law and order they've set up. (Mostly because it's so opposite to what one might expect of a Dygra-worshipping region, but that in itself is chaotic in Danta's opinion). He lets his knees fall open as Asta approaches to kneel before him, eyes closing at the gentle touch of his forehead.

The moment of peace after the frenzy is something he is only very recently learning to let happen, so used to succumbing to further rage and long-buried frustration that this still feels unnatural to some extent. But Asta's presence - warm, grounding and endlessly patient - helps enormously, and he smiles back into the offered kiss. "Thank you," he purrs, though his gratitude is interrupted by a sudden rumble of thunder overhead.

"I did think we had escaped the rain for a bit too long, you know," he scoffs.

Dantalion

you play your final ace for a pretty face, tastes like scotch and cigarettes

// don't you fight my hold on you //

“There is.” He agrees, making a mental note to absolutely indulge in the plan of a hunt again. Perhaps the next time he can up the ante by giving them someone that’s got more fight, or perhaps a dual partnership that would allow each one of them to take down their own. The options were always open, provided someone was around to indulge in their darker instincts.

Plus, it meant that the butcher was helping in more than one way. “Mm, they are.” He agrees to the prideful boast of the Maverick – always happy when Danta’s happy. And given who they are and what the majority believed their lives to be like, well, having the surprise of an actual regimented law enforcement was equally brilliant.

For now, though, he’s considering staying out here longer, shedding their clothes temporarily for the utmost fire bath, when the clap of thunder rumbles overhead and his tail whips behind him as he heaves a small laugh. “I suppose it is a good thing that we will not melt, yes?” He says instead, a streak of his brattiness pulling through as he sinks down onto Danta and wraps his blood stained hands around him, pinning him to the base of the tree with him for these thunder-lined moments of reverie.

Astaroth

// pour the gasoline, strike your match on me //

you're livin' for the rush, for that royal flush, but you take what you can get

"Not so far at least," Danta says through a grin. Knowing the way the gods and Caido works, there might well come a magical rain in future that's capable of melting people into goo, but as those first fat droplets start to fall, they're entirely innocuous. The Maverick is about to suggest they get going when Asta sinks down and against him, forcing a laugh from his chest as he shifts to adjust against the tree trunk, his own arms winding around the butcher in turn.

"And here I thought you'd had your fill of rain and mud," he mumbles, nosing into Asta's bloodstained hair, his fingers dancing along the tines of one of his horns. The fire obsidian almost looks molten in the light, iridescent and unholy like the dark shadow to Danta's own horns, and the Maverick finds himself smiling despite himself. "I never thought I'd be this lucky, y'know," he mumbles. "To have anything like this, I mean."

Dantalion

you play your final ace for a pretty face, tastes like scotch and cigarettes

// don't you fight my hold on you //

Perhaps one day there would be – but for now, the butcher’s already a mess with the blood and mud and the thrill of the hunt – sated in a way that does not come too easily for him. Enough that he can revert to being more akin to Ferox with the flippancy of his appearance. Especially as Danta laughs and they adjust in a bloody, messy heap at the base of this tree, water sprinkling through in droving showers – soft at first, then all at once.

He supposes it’s a good thing he’s taking the brunt of it, leaving Danta’s middle somewhat dry from where he’s collapsed on him. “I have. But I have not had my fill of you yet.” So he could deal with the things he didn’t like all that much if it meant he got to sit here and hold him and share the warmth and victory of a successful hunt.

It’s Danta’s next words, though, that distract him – too focused on the feeling of his fingers against the fire obsidian horns, streaked with splashes of blood. He can’t help the way his arms squeeze around him and he looks up slightly, head tilting so that his dark gaze can peer up at his lover, his smile hidden by the position of where they’re settled. “I never thought I would either, darling.” He murmurs gently – shifting to nuzzle the side of his face into Danta’s chest.

It had taken seasons for Asta to break the panic of letting someone in enough to be able to do this. And despite all the struggle and stress, the love and adoration he has for the man beneath him outweighs each and every second of worry and self-doubt, the one that had not balked at the butcher’s history or preferences, but instead took his worries like they were a challenge – and won.

“I am lucky to have you.” He tacks on a little quieter, eyes closing despite the cool drops of rain that flick from the tip of his ashen spaded tail.

Astaroth

// pour the gasoline, strike your match on me //

you're livin' for the rush, for that royal flush, but you take what you can get

"Oh, I see," Danta drawls, grinning and succumbing to this moment of rest in the wake of blood and chaos, even if it's amid the sort of downpour that would normally have them hissing and running for cover. Right now, though, Danta is as settled as it gets, glancing down at Asta as he peeks up towards him, his hand dropping from his horns to stroke along the side of his face.

"Mm, lucky is a stretch when it comes to me," he quips, though there's nothing but quiet affection and gratitude hidden in the words. "You're stuck with me now though, sugar, so get used to it." His fingers feather through the butcher's damp hair now, as if to let the rain start to wash away some of the blood while he fusses, and given that their combined body heat will stave away the chill, he's surprisingly content to lay like this for as long as Asta likes.

Glancing up at a flash of lightning followed by a close, quick boom of thunder, he can't help the grin that spreads across his face. "You know," he mutters, his voice a little louder as the rain intensifies, "it's almost like the sky waited for us to have our fun before doing this."

Dantalion

you play your final ace for a pretty face, tastes like scotch and cigarettes

// don't you fight my hold on you //

He nuzzles into the touch to his face, eyes fluttering with the blink as he relaxes into the touch – boneless and exhausted as the bloodlust and his cravings are both happily topped off. He hears the quip and determines it’s nothing more than self-deprecation, listening as he makes the statement that the butcher thrives off. “Mm, I would have it no other way.” And it’s true – He can’t get rid of Danta just as much as Danta can get rid of him. At least, not by any other means (the miscommunication from his return with the mud behemoth still stings occasionally).

The lightning strikes again, the boom following it up as the air becomes both heavy with rain and energized with the living storm they’re enduring – grateful they’re on the ground in a puddle of their own lest they become walking lightning rods. “I think it knew we wanted a shower, hm?” He doesn’t know about Danta, but the butcher was absolutely debating a bath, just one wreathed in fire and heat as opposed to the sopping wet raindrops.

It doesn’t matter too much, though, because suddenly overcome with the thoughts that linger in his mind of Danta’s previous comment, it has him looking up more fully at his lover, shifting enough to keep his hand in his hair as he draws little designs into the Maverick’s back. “For the record, darling, I would not have done half of the things I have done since reawakening if it were not for you.” He points out – tail flicking more water off the tip of it as he shifts slightly to blanket Danta better, tilting up enough to press a kiss to his collarbone and then to his chin. “So, thank you. For everything.” He mumbles against his skin.

Astaroth

// pour the gasoline, strike your match on me //

you're livin' for the rush, for that royal flush, but you take what you can get

"Agreed," Danta murmurs a little more quietly, his voice almost lost in the drone of rainfall, but Asta will feel the rumble of it in his chest. It's hard to compare, these days, the men they'd once been compared to who they are now. Truly, given the opportunity to go back, Danta would relish the opportunity to tell his younger self what he's got to look forward to if only he can hold out a bit longer and keep his nerve. (Though perhaps he'd keep the who a secret).

Laughing at the idea of the weather trying to do them a favour, Danta's fingers press a little harder against Asta's scalp, teasing blood from his dark locks and melting away any lingering tension from the hunt. "Mm, maybe it did. I think we might need another one before we actually feel clean, though," he says quietly, before Asta is shifting to peer up at him again, the butcher adjusting himself to get a bit more into Danta's space.

Slouching further against the tree to gaze down at the other man, he's smiling helplessly at the kisses Asta aims against his skin when the butcher speaks again, and any off-handed quip he might have made dies on his tongue. Blinking at Asta through the rain, expression made soft with the sincerity of his lover's thanks, rather than trying to form a clever response, Danta merely leans in for a real kiss, as if Asta might be able to taste the depth of his love on his lips.

Dantalion

you play your final ace for a pretty face, tastes like scotch and cigarettes

// don't you fight my hold on you //

He feels the rumble of the agreement more than he hears it, and he latches onto it in all the ways that the butcher filters away for his memories. If he’d been in the same position of thoughts as the Maverick, he would have also left out the the who, but perhaps promised himself that there was a way he wouldn’t have to live and be alone, so closed off and brutish to anyone that wanted to be close.

Danta’s laugh is music despite the dampener the rain makes, the backdrop to the smooth scrub of his fingers against his scalp, coming away red and red until it starts to clear up, leaving it tinged pink. “Yes. Probably so.” He agrees in the soft murmur of space created with each kiss pressed to a collarbone and the blonde’s chin, settling in enough to look up at him in a mixture of exhaustion from the hunt but the satisfaction of a job well done.

Such that, when Danta leans in for a real kiss, the butcher all but melts into it – taking the quiet fact that for all the wordplay Asta has, Danta’s more meaningful responses tend to be through his body language. A book that he loves to read day after day. Such that right now, he leans into it, rising enough to be able to balance himself on one arm while the other lifts to blood stained gold hair, threading through it with his fingers to keep them close as he all but loses himself in the sage, smoky, bloody kiss.

Astaroth

// pour the gasoline, strike your match on me //

you're livin' for the rush, for that royal flush, but you take what you can get

It would be far too easy to get lost in this, Danta realises. Kissing the butcher is one of his favourite pastimes as it is, but never before has he realised how much the rest of the world falls away between the press of his body and the soft brush of his lips. He ought to care more, he supposes - it's a good way to get a knife between the ribs, being distracted like this - but he can't find it in him to draw away, not until his lungs scream for air.

And even then, it's with a quiet, reluctant moan and a final flick of his tongue that he withdraws, feeling molten in all the places they touch and huffing out a soft breath of laughter. "We should go," he whispers, "before the memory mud comes after us again. I bet that mud-man has turned itself around out there and is on its way as we speak."

Dantalion

you play your final ace for a pretty face, tastes like scotch and cigarettes

// don't you fight my hold on you //

He could also get lost in this – he’s done it before and would happily drown himself in the rain if it meant that he got to be right where he is. But as they part to catch their breath, the butcher’s panting breaths warm the space between them, lips finally quirking up in a smile on the edges to hear the soft huff of his lover’s laughter. “Mmm,” he drawls, like he’s really considering not getting up and leaving lest the mud man return.

It is for the best, though, because the later it gets the more likely it is that the rain will chill them to stone, and that’s not a birthday gift Asta wants to give the man that had inexplicitly changed his life. So he withdraws more, extending a hand to help the Maverick up to his feet and slip his arm around his shoulder. “The Mud-Man Vengeance.” He drawls with all of his accented dramatics, head tilting with some amusement. “I would say it is tempting, if not for the rain.” And absolutely not the fact he wants nothing more than to indulge himself with Danta until he’s not sure where the Maverick begins and the butcher ends.

“The wagon is not far. Once we are there we can warm up and dry off.” He says decisively, thankful for the fact that it would be covered for the trek back so that they don’t get rained on more. And with the promise of that and the bloodlust sated and no longer a biting thread on the outskirts of his mind, Asta hopes Danta had a birthday to remember.

- FIN

Astaroth

// pour the gasoline, strike your match on me //